CHAPTER LXXI.
NIGHT.
At about eight o'clock that evening, a hurried note reached Alice Arden, at Mortlake. It was from her brother, and said,—
“My Darling Alice,
“I can't get away from town to-night, I am overwhelmed with business; but to-morrow, before dinner, I hope to see you, and stay at Mortlake till next morning.—Your affectionate brother,
“Dick.”
The house was quiet earlier than in former times, when Sir Reginald, of rakish memory, was never in his bed till past three o'clock in the morning. Mortlake was an early house now, and all was still by a quarter past eleven. The last candle burning was usually that in Mrs. Tansey's room. She had not yet gone to bed, and was still in “the housekeeper's room,” when a tapping came at the window. It reminded her of Mr. Longcluse's visit on the night of the funeral.
She was now the only person up in the house, except Alice, who was at the far side of the building, where, in the next room, her maid was in bed asleep. Alice, who sat at her dressing-table, reading, with her long rich hair dishevelled over her shoulders, was, of course, quite out of hearing.
Martha went to the window with a little frown of uncertainty. Opening a bit of the shutter, she saw Sir Richard's face close to her. Was ever old housekeeper so pestered by nightly tappings at her window-pane?
“La! who'd a thought o' seeing you, Master Richard! why, you told Miss Alice you'd not be here till to-morrow!” she says pettishly, holding the candle high above her head.
He makes a sign of caution to her, and placing his lips near the pane, says,—
“Open the window the least bit in life.”